


dream a little dream

by modernlifehistorian



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Post Season 2, Some Fluff, Some angst, the whole package
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-24 18:02:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14959415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/modernlifehistorian/pseuds/modernlifehistorian
Summary: It’s a song that’s words are tattooed on the innermost walls of her heart and whose notes flowed through her blood. Not like the song she’d written about in her journal, the one her mother sang.  {Future!Lyatt} {Present!Lyatt} {Post Season 2}





	dream a little dream

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 5th Week Anniversary of no renewal news! (Get it together, NBC) Comin’ back at you with some more Future!Lyatt and Present!Lyatt fluff (I hope y’all aren’t getting tired of all the Future!Lyatt fics cause I’m definitely not) This one’s a tiny bit longer than my one-shots tend to be, but the characters kept talking so I just kept writing! 
> 
> This one is dedicated to my goats (especially Jo who gave me the prompt) who waited the three weeks it took me to crank this one out! And to my Beany Bunch for beta reading and supporting always. 
> 
> Hope y’all enjoy!

Lucy had always been a sound sleeper, but that never meant she always got the most sleep. From undergrad to graduate to doctoral school, there were weeks on end where she didn’t get more than four hours of sleep a night, but when her head did hit the pillow, for however brief of time, she slept hard. Then after Mason Industries and saving history came calling, and Amy disappeared, her sleep became a little less restful. There weren’t so many nightmares yet, but tossing and turning became the vehicle of vivid dreams. She had never really dreamed before, or at least she never remembered dreaming. Why people romanticize the incessant interruption of fallacies and fantasies that plagued her sleep had been beyond her. It felt like someone left the TV on in her mind, replaying the life she lived on an endless cycle and making it impossible to ever feel rested.

And it didn’t help that a certain hot-headed soldier quickly became a recurring guest star in these nighttime reruns.

But she adjusted, learning to compensate for the ever growing tiredness she felt with a near unhealthy coffee addiction. There wasn’t, however, any addiction that could fix the inflating affections she felt for Wyatt Logan.

Then Rittenhouse happened, her mother happened, everything she thought was certain got burned to ash in her hands and replaced with a newspaper that verified her worst fears. Amy was lost, her mother was a psycho, and now the only family she had left, her only hope, was gone, burned in the fires of Mason Industries. That’s when the inconvenient dreams took the shape of tormenting nightmares, ones that upgraded tossing and turning to shaking and thrashing, sweating and shivering. Sleep became the bane of her existence. At least when she had dreamed, it had been of things she’d known and seen, but the nightmares… she witnessed moments that more often than not sent her to careening towards the bathroom to empty an already empty stomach. There were flashes of Rufus trying to reach Jiya in the burning wreckage before both were consumed by flames, glimpses of Mason and Denise falling from the second story conference room, but the harshest, most persistent vision was of Wyatt. Shrapnel protruding from his back, blood running from his nose, still calling out for her, trying to warn her. Her screams on those nights were not appreciated by the Rittenhouse Nazis that slept in rooms adjacent to hers.

The nightmares subsided in the few weeks after her rescue. Wyatt, Rufus, Jiya, all her team was alive. He’d found her. He’d wrapped her in his arms like she was a dream come true. She could sleep without a blanket of anxiety suffocating her, but she had resigned to the fact that the once restful nights of her youth were behind her.

At least until a night where the dreams played out while she was awake and her sleep had been protected from intrusion by the arms of a man she’d thought would never belong to her in any other context then those nighttime fantasies.

For a day her eyes didn’t waiver from exhaustion, her hands didn’t quiver from the insane intake of caffeine, and she was happy.

For a day.

There haven’t been any dreams or nightmares since then… there’s hardly been any sleep at all.

Now she lays in bed just long enough to ensure everyone else has found themselves asleep in their own quarters, and she finds refuge in the main living area, reading, watching old movies, sitting in silence, anything to fill the space of night.

Her bare feet pad gently on the bitter cold concrete floor, eyeing the walls around her with a sorrow that bled into her sagging shoulders and slowed her weary steps.

They had all been soaked in the ocean of possibilities of a life beyond these dreary, rusted halls. Rufus and Jiya, she and Wyatt. The dreams of every “could be” had drenched them in hope, but circumstances had left them out to dry. They match the home they’ve now been resigned to.

Rusted halls for every rusted heart that fills them.

Some dystopian Wizard of Oz where every one of them has been cast as the tin man.

An all too familiar voice lifts her from her melancholic haze. It’s her. Her own voice, softly singing a tune that struck a chord deep within her.

“ _Stars shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you" Birds singing in the sycamore trees. Dream a little dream of me.”_

It’s a song that’s words are tattooed on the innermost walls of her heart and whose notes flowed through her blood. Not like the song she’d written about in her journal, the one her mother sang. That melody sung with betrayal and was harmonized by heartbreak. This song… it came to her heart by ways pure and free of Rittenhouse influence, through an old vinyl of her father’s she’d wandered upon a few days before Amy was born.

 

* * *

 

 

 _She knows her dad’s office is supposed to be an off limit area for her curious six-soon-to-be-seven-year old mind and clumsy hands, but she can’t_ help _it. Momma keeps telling her that her baby sister will be here soon, but she’s been saying that forever and still no baby. Who could blame her for getting a little restless?_

_Without hesitation she makes a beeline for the bottom left drawer of his mahogany desk, cautiously pulling it open in an attempt to keep her covert operations just that. Her honey eyes beam at the sight before her. Every single one of her dad’s classic vinyls neatly ordered by artist then alphabetically. The array of color is hypnotizing to her mind, lulling her into a sense of security. Her small hands skims the top of the cardboard cases, before diving in, pulling out the first one she has a grasp on._

_It’s all too underwhelming. It’s battered and torn. Nothing more than a black cover with the words DECCA in plain white letters across the top, and a bunch of smaller words she doesn’t find much interest in reading. Minding greatly to keep its proper place, she begins to drop the record back in._

_“Why so quick to put that one back, Lou?”_

_Her shoulders tense up to her ears at the sound of his voice. She turns ever so slowly to look up at where he’s standing behind her. All sandy hair and bright green eyes and smirked lips, crossing his arms and shaking his head in feign disapproval._

_“Daddy, you_ scared _me,” she informs him, one hand still lost in the array of albums, the other pressed to her heart._

_“Last time I checked,” he laughs, scooping her off the ground and plopping her into his desk chair. “There were no bugs allowed in my office.”_

_“I’m not a_ bug, _Daddy,” she giggles, swinging her legs back and forth to give the chair some spin._

_“Are you sure? Last time I checked you were my little Lou bug. That’s still you, right?” She nods enthusiastically, but her smile fades a bit when he kneels on the ground in front of her, a more serious look in his eye. “But are you supposed to be in my office without me, baby girl? The tools I keep in here can be very dangerous, and I need to make sure you’re safe.” His office is always full of the things he takes and brings home from excavations, and they draw her curiosity almost as much as the hidden music drawer._

_“I just wanted to listen to your music,” she whispers, dropping her head to her chest. “So maybe I could sing to the baby when she comes.” His look of disapproval immediately morphs into something so soft, she feels it wrap around her shoulders and cover her in a comfort only a dad knows how to provide._

_“Well how am I supposed to say no to that?” He sighs with a small smile, before lifting her from the chair only to resettle her in his lap. “You had a pretty good one picked out when I first came in, Lou. Why were you putting it back?”_

_“‘Cause it was so plain, Daddy. And the box was all messed up. I like the colorful ones better.”_

_“Oh, but, sweetie,” he breathes, like he’s about to let her in on some wonderous secret. “It’s the ones with the torn jackets, that have been the most loved, and the most bleak of first impressions that need the most love.” He reaches around her and into the drawer to pull the record back out, holding it in front of her for her to examine. “This one looks like it does because I don’t think there’s a track I’ve played more than one on here.” Her eyebrows raise in surprise, and she looks back at him with pleading eyes._

_“Can we listen to it?” Her soft voice bursting with excitement and wonder. If there is a song he loves most, she wants to hear it, memorize it, transcribe it onto her heart. “Maybe… maybe it’s the one I can sing to Amy?” He presses a loving kiss to her forehead._

_“Of course we can, Lou bug.” He swivels the chair around to snap the disk into the record player sitting behind his desk._

_The crackling begins in earnest, one of the sweetest sounds to her young ears, and then a trumpet rings through the room before an even sweeter voice begins to purr:_

_“Stars, shining bright above you. Night breezes seem to whisper "I love you." Birds singing in the sycamore trees. Dream a little dream of me.”_

_She listens in wonderment, falling more in love with the slow jazz sound by the second. They sit motionless as the sound of Ella Fitzgerald and Louie Armstrong float in the air around them, painting the empty space in strokes of gold and ivory and love._

_She doesn’t want it to end._

_But even as the voice is replaced by the crackling white noise once again, the magic only slightly fades, and her curious mind begins to run rampant._

_“Why is that your favorite, Daddy?”she asks, leaning her head back against his chest. His arms come around her, cradling her to him and a cheek comes to rest atop her hair._

_“That’s a good question, Lou. It happened when I took your momma on our first date at this old cafe across from campus. The band played this song, and at first she didn’t want to dance. You know your momma, stubborn to a fault. But eventually I dragged her out onto the floor, and you know what happened next, bug?”_

_“What?” She replies, her voice soft, but shining with anticipation._

_“We danced, and we danced, and we danced,” he tells her, his voice flowing with a kind of magic she always imagined love comes from. “And your momma, she smiled and laughed and that’s when I knew. She was the dream. And I went in search for this vinyl the next day, and I made her dance to it every time she was sad or stressed or worried. We danced to it so much that eventually we started singing along with it.”_

_“But Momma doesn’t sing good, Daddy,” she reminds him, scrunching her nose up just a little._

_“No,” he laughs. “No she doesn’t, bug, but you wanna know a secret?” She wags her head up and down, brown curls bouncing. “When it’s someone you really love, they could be the worst singer on the planet, but you love the sound of their voice more than any Hollywood sensation, New Orleans starlette, or Broadway doll. Love is a weird kinda magic that way.” She glances up at him before shaking her head._

_“I still think she sounds pretty bad,” she teases with the goofiest of grins. He pulls her in a little tighter before his fingers tickle their way across her ribs, tearing loud laughs from her throat that her mother would undoubtedly hear._

_“You’ll understand someday, you little sassy pants,” he says warmly. “And when you find him… he better treat you like a queen ‘cause archaeologists know how to hide a body where no one will find it for a long, long time.” She giggles at her dad’s joke, hiding her face in her hands._

_“What kind of trouble are you two up to in here?”_

_Lucy hops from her father’s lap and darts straight to her mother, or more so her mother’s protruding belly, placing gentle hands on both sides._

_“I’ve got a new song for you, Amy. So why don’t you hurry on up and I’ll sing it to you every night and we’ll dance and sing, ‘kay? Sound good?” She ignores the laugh from her parents and the quizzical glance from her mother, trying to gauge her baby sister’s response. A kick directly towards her hand has her near bubbling over with excitement. “She likes it! Can we listen again? Please? I have to learn it before she gets here!” Without needing to be asked twice, Henry sets the needle back on the track, and the thrilling trumpet again fills the room, leaving the three—well, four—hearts in its presence full to the point of bursting._

 

* * *

 

The vivid memory has her gasping, leaning on the wall for any kind of support even as the singing continues to float past, not paying any mind to the one it almost knocked off her feet.

Music had been her father’s quiet passion. It’s where her love for the art bloomed from, and her dream of a life lived through its unseen canvas lay in the grave they laid him into not even a decade after that mystifying day. He’s a part of her life she kept in the quietest compartments of her consciousness. His death had torn all three of them to shreds, and compartmentalizing was the closest to coping she would ever come.

She hadn’t sung the words since that all too sunny May afternoon where a black dress draped her thin frame and a few digs of dirt filled the hole he would forever rest in, and she had desperately wished holes in her heart could be filled so quickly, so simply. She hadn’t hummed the tune since Amy disappeared and any memories burnt like an iron, reminding her that the memories she had didn’t line up with the facts she had so dependently leaned on her whole life. She hadn’t thought of the song since her mother kidnapped her, betraying anything she had ever known to be real and left her questioning even the most ingrained realities.

Her mother, her father, and Amy. The three points of that memory each having been ripped away by seemingly inconceivable circumstances.

But now she knows that she is, or would be, singing it again with a renewed vigor no matter how soft the volume, and as she pads closer to the source, peaking around the corner, the breath she’d finally regained flees from her lungs.

When her and Wyatt’s future counterparts emerged from the Lifeboat a week ago, she’d quickly formed assumptions about the pair. Cold, war-torn, stoic, and, quite honestly, they had scared her senseless. Not in any sense that they were dangerous. It was her and Wyatt for goodness’ sake. But it scared her that that was what she is going to become. Some Lara Croft-esque badass with chopped hair, a shotgun strapped to her back, and eyes that had seen far more than she’d care to know.

In that moment, it had seemed to her that in the future she’d have to strip herself of the Lucy Preston she knew. Clumsy, nerdy, play-it-safe, Lucy couldn’t exist on the path she was ambling down.

That’s how it seemed.

What she’s witnessing now blew any of those assumptions out of the water.

“ _Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you. Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you, but in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me…”_ She knows she’s always had a pretty decent singing voice, but for the first time, hearing it like this, she realizes what’s been missing from it for so many years.

She’s _happy._ The words have joy stitched through them, and contentment tying off the end. There’s no longer any weight from her mother’s disapproval or her father’s death.

And it doesn’t take more than her two spying eyes to figure out why.

In the middle of their mess area, dancing in between tables to nothing but the sound of her voice are her and Wyatt. Two hands are joined out beside them, his other arm is wrapped securely around her waist, her’s around his neck. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated and so chalked full of bliss that she almost feels the need to look away. Almost.

He spins her around, and she may or may not run into a chair, but it hardly matters because he catches her from falling, pulls her back into his embrace, and the dance continues.

 _“Stars fading but I linger on dear, still craving your kiss…”_ He takes great care to punctuate that line with a loving kiss to his Lucy’s lips. “ _I'm longing to linger till dawn dear, just saying this…”_ They begin to slow the pace of their movements until Lucy is turning away while keeping his hand securely in hers and leading him over to the couch. “ _Sweet dreams, till sunbeams find you. Gotta keep dreaming leave all worries behind you, but in your dreams whatever they be…”_ She settles on the far end, gently tugging him to down to spread across the cushions, resting his head in her lap. “ _You gotta make me a promise, promise to me…”_ Her fingers begin to work through his hair, occasionally traveling down his jaw, across his shoulders, down his arm, but always finding their way back. “ _You’ll dream, dream a little of me.”_ Even as the words meet their finite end, the melody continues as a gentle hum, rattling deep in her chest, pulsing through her fingertips and writing the lyrics across his skin to carry with him into sleep.

She’s frozen, too shocked to move, unable to comprehend what she’d just seen. Bliss, joy, happiness, these had never been things she wore regularly, if ever. The style was too expensive, not her taste. Her mother had taught her that happiness meant laziness. Contentment was for the people who no longer had ambition or aspirations. It was not the way of Preston women. But it’s clear to her that her future self found a way to afford the luxury of joy without sacrificing her drive. She’s not surprised. Wyatt has always made her see things in new ways, breaking the mold around her stubborn mind to set her free.

“I thought we considered it rude to spy on people.” It takes her by a little surprise that she’s been caught, even if by herself.

“I just… I needed, um…”

“You’re mumbling like I don’t already know,” Lucy chuckles, casting a side-eyed glance her direction. “You can’t sleep. You haven’t slept in a while. You come in here, make tea, read, and might be lucky enough to catch a few winks of rest on the pages on whatever book you picked up.” It’s an absurd feeling, but the same shy guilt she felt when her dad caught her in his vinyl drawer. There’s something so intrusive yet so comforting about someone who just _knows,_ who understands without Lucy having to share a single word.

“Well, you already know,” she sighs, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. “So I’ll just get to it, then.” Her feet begin to drag her towards the kitchenette.

“Come sit,” the older Lucy commands gently, nodding her head towards the empty loveseat across from her.

It’s the first attempt this future version of herself has made to interact with her outside of meetings, and curiosity has never been something she’s been able to say no to. She casts a longing glance towards the awaiting kettle but does as she’s told, taking cautious approach.

She’s the walking textbook definition of awkward, she’s more aware of this fact than most people credit her for. But It’s an entirely new dimension of discomfort, sitting a few feet away from yourself from the future, while the future version of the man you’re so helplessly in love with but feel like you can never love again is so comfortably resting away in her lap… it’s just almost too much for her mind to wrap around.

“I’m assuming you have questions,” she says, eyeing her younger self with sympathy.

“Wouldn’t you?” They share a knowing smile.

“There’s only so much I can talk about,” she explains. “Butterfly effects and all that crap.”

“Oh, I’m all too aware,” she scoffs. It’s what she’s been fighting for and against for three years. “And there’s a lot I don’t really want to know, but…” It’s like looking into a mirror, although maybe a weird, tomb raider funhouse mirror, as they both look down at the man laid across her lap, his face turned in towards her stomach.

“It’s very like us to say we understand there’s a lot we can’t talk about and then dive head first into the deepest, most complicated part of the past five years,” her apocalypse doppelgänger laughs. “But I get it. He’s the thing you feel hopeless about. We’re here to help you save Rufus, you have your team to help defeat Emma, but you and Wyatt… that’s all on you two, and he’s made it clear where he stands. So now you feel like it’s all on you, and after everything, you have no idea what to do.” She nails it on the head, so all Lucy can do is shrug.

“You’re angry, Lucy,” she recognizes. “You’re hurt. You feel betrayed by the one person you should’ve been able to trust.” The words pierce the thin wrap that had been holding in every single one of her emotions about Wyatt. She’d cried about Rufus, she cried about her mother, and every other thing other than the one that had torn her the most. Partly because she hadn’t wanted Wyatt to see just how much he’d broken her already fragile heart, but mostly because it was a pride ingrained in her blood that a man would never be the reason she felt empty.

There are no sobs or wracking shoulders, just a stream of tears like a faucet left barely running, slow and steady and just as much of a waste. But she can’t turn it off. At least of all people she could break down in front of, it’s herself, the only person who could completely understand.

“ _Why?”_ It’s one word, but it’s the vessel for dozens of questions she’s boxed away, determined never to contemplate. And she prays the woman sitting across from her understands because if she asked them out loud… her resolve to remain as one piece might shatter.

 _Why did he leave without saying anything? Why did he choose her? Why did he bring her back? Why did he keep trying to care for me? Why did he let her stay? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t he_ trust _me?_

“You know why.”

It’s that simple, isn’t it? She knows why.

Because it’s who he is. He’s reckless and stubborn and loyal and loves harder than anyone she’s ever known, but never has there been a man more inept with adequately using words to convey feelings.

He wouldn’t have been Wyatt, the Wyatt she’d fallen in love with in Germany and San Antonio and Arkansas and Washington and Hollywood and New York and every place in every moment in history, if he hadn’t taken the shot at a marriage with Jessica.

“He made some _stupid_ choices, don’t get me wrong,” she draws the younger Lucy back with the blunt statement. “All of them out of his blinding guilt. Guilt over her death, guilt over being the shitty husband she made him believe he was, guilt over hurting you, guilt over…” She closes her eyes and shakes her head as if she had been about to say something she shouldn’t have. “And that guilt that’s crippled him for so long, he’s finally at a place where he can move past it, but he’s going to need your help.”

“But—”

“Lucy,” her older self interrupts. “I _know._ I know you don’t want to forgive him right now, and, believe me, you don’t have to. But what you won’t admit right now is that you also have urges toward something more vengeful. You want to find some way to hurt him the way he hurt you. You want him to suffer in this state of uncertainty for a while before you reach out to him again. You’re human, Lucy. You’re not a saint, you’re not an angel. Trust me…I know better than anyone.You’re a woman with a heart that’s taken a few too many hits, but don’t forget that his has taken a few hits as well. And at this point… you’re all each other has. If you do what you feel he might deserve, then you’ll both suffer the more for it.”

She feels naked, exposed, vulnerable. It’s a shameful thought, the places her anger had led her, but they had always been just that, _thoughts._ Private, unbreachable. That is… until the woman that was her , that _is_ her shows up and casts light on her most confidential ponderings.

But she also feels convicted…  because this Lucy is speaking the kind of logic only Lucy Preston could deliver, and when her normally logical mind is clouded, it’s exactly what she needs.

But there is still a nagging question.

_How?_

“How do we… How do _I_ ever trust him again?” She pleads, shaking her head. “How do I trust that he won’t put saving Jessica ahead of everything else? He told me he loves me… but that…” She fears her words will reveal just what she’s been afraid of since those three earth shattering words slipped from his mouth.

In Hollywood she’d felt it. She’d seen it in the way he gazed at her, breathless, after she sang her own feelings to him, in the way the pool and the stars simultaneously magnified the intense passions in his eyes, in the way he’d _loved_ her, giving and giving and giving until they’d both been too exhausted for her to give anything back… and then the way he’d held her, his hands gentle yet unrelenting, holding her against him like if they separated, he would wake up to it all having been some fantastical dream. She’ll admit that the thought that that night in 1941 had been nothing more than a dream had flitted through her mind, but no dream could ignite her skin the way his hands had, ignite the dulling fire in her weary soul.

In these moments she’d _seen_ love. Neither of them spoke the words (although she had technically _sung_ them), but they hadn’t needed to.

And then he did. And a hope was renewed in the hole left in her battered heart… and a fear that the confession was nothing more than a result of pain, anger, regret, and, her worst fear, guilt. Wyatt’s commitment to Jessica had been driven by his guilt over his hand in her death, and then by his need to correct what this Wyatt had supposedly done. She refuses for the love Wyatt confessed to her to be the result of anything like that. That kind of love is exhausting, short-lived, toxic.

“It’s funny now… getting to actually see myself go into one of these thinking spells,” her older self chuckles. “He always talks about them, but you can’t exactly recognize it when _you’re_ the one lost in thought. And I know what you’re thinking.” Lucy squirms a bit in her seat, the comfort of having someone to relate to now laced with a growing sense of discomfort of having someone who knows your most hidden secrets. “I know what you’re afraid of, but there's only so much I can say to ease all of that.”

“Butterfly effects?” She huffs, glancing down into her empty hands and desperately wishing there was a mug of tea in them to quell her nerves. The next chapter of her book is right in front of her, and her fingers are fiddling with the corner of the, debating over whether or not to turn the page.

“Some butterfly effects,” Lucy agrees before shifting her gaze to her Wyatt, running an hand through his hair. “But more than that… it’s just… it’s up to him. Up to him to ease the weight you feel so burdened with. He’s going to be the one…” She fades off abruptly, looking off into empty space. Her mind traces the line of the past five years, remembering every little thing he did. How he would pull blankets over her after she falls asleep on the couch from reading too late, mark the page she’d left open, and place the book back on the shelf in its right order. How he would lend a hand with her chore rotations when he noticed she was overly exhausted, but not say a word unless she spoke first, not ever wanting to push her beyond what she wanted, what she was comfortable with. How he would teach her to fight, his only reason being that he wanted her safe. How he would remember the date of Amy’s birthday from way back when Emma first came into their lives, when they had all been huddled around a campfire, and he had every reason to be focused solely on his own baggage, and when he knew the day was coming he would make sure the fridge possessed a rare carton of Ben and Jerry’s, and would even convince Agent Christopher to acquire the first season of Gilmore Girls on DVD because she had let it slip that it had been her’s and Amy’s favorite show to watch together. How she would rebuild her shattered heart, piece by piece, with him standing next to her handing her the parts she hadn’t realized were broken, offering to put them in their proper place if she couldn’t see where they belonged.

Never forceful, yet never fading. Her morning tide, washing away the scars in the sand, leaving her with a clean slate.

How she would fall in love with him all over again because he would become everything she needed, not only what she wanted.

But this future isn’t hers to share. She isn’t even positive that with the changes they intend to make that this Lucy’s future will resemble anything of her own past, yet it’s the lost look in her younger self’s eyes that caves just the smallest portion in her resolve. She’s all too familiar with the look, with the feeling.

“He’s going to make you coffee,” she finally stumbles out, turning her gaze back to the Lucy before her. “Every morning. It’ll be on the counter, waiting in your mug, and at first it won’t be quite right. A little too much sugar, not enough cream, a bit bitter, since he brews it so thick. Then…” she takes a pause, looking off for a moment, scoffing in disbelief. “Day after day it keeps getting closer, more towards that ideal cup, until one morning… it’ll be perfect. It’s going to be the best morning you’ve had since 1941, and after that it will never change again.”

It’s the smallest thing she can think to share, but the way Lucy’s eyes sparkle just a bit more tells her it’s all she needs to hang on, to keep fighting. “I still have no idea how it happened, how he did it, and part of me never wants to really know, but you asked how you—we—ever learn to trust him again, and it’s the things like that. He’ll keep doing cowboy stuff.” They both chuckle. “He’ll be reckless in the lengths he’s willing to go to fix what he broke, but it won’t be in the midst of bullets and chaos that you’ll see it. It’ll be in the coffee and the in-betweens. When he can put away the soldier mask and you can’t hide a broken heart behind big skirts and corsets.”

The silence that overtakes the space between them no longer acts as a veil, but more as a bubble that encompasses the both of them, joining them rather than forcing them apart. For this moment the discomfort either of them have felt towards each other has fallen away, leaving them with a familiarity and understanding they haven’t felt since Amy.     

But there’s still one thing that sits between them, and it sends waves crashing behind her eyes.  

“You… you sang him Dad’s song,” she whispers, her voice soaked with tears. “I thought we agreed to never sing it again.”

She smirks, glancing down at her Wyatt and running a hand through his hair.

“Yeah…”

 

* * *

 

 

_Jessica had held her at gunpoint. Wyatt had shot Jessica… only after he’d hesitated._

_From there it had been such a mad scramble back to the Lifeboat that neither of them had had the time to speak or hardly think about what had transpired, and if she were being honest she had been a little nervous to ask._

_The moment they’d returned to 2019, he’d vanished to the makeshift gym, and she had known better than to follow him. Whether it was the fact that he’d shot his ex-wife or that he’d hesitated in doing so that had him so wound up, he needed the time to process. Alone._

_So she’d taken refuge on the old couch with a steaming mug of tea in her hands and an old book open across her laps._

_Two hours._

_She has yet to read a word._

_It’s easy to fall into the endless pit of doubt based on that day’s events especially when it comes to their fairly new, blossoming relationship, and it’s a conscious battle that she’s fighting to remain upright._

_“Hey.” She jumps from her spot on the couch like he’d appeared out of thin air before her. His hair is damp from the shower, a towel wrapped around his broad shoulder, worn-in sweats a great contrast from the period-appropriate suit she’d last seen him in, and a nervous smile adorning his lips._

_“Hey,” she responds before settling herself back onto the couch, wiping her palms across the fabric of her jeans._

_“Mind if I sit?” He asks, gesturing to the now vacant spot beside her. She solemnly nods and desperately fights the fear of what’s going to come next. He slowly lowers himself beside her and leans forward, propping his head on his hands and running a contemplative hand across his mouth._

_“How are you doing?” She questions gently, wanting to reach out but refraining, unsure of how the day’s events had effected not just him, but them._

_“I shot Jessica.” It’s simple, declarative, expressing no emotion, like he was reading a sentence out of a book he had no real interest in. There’s a beat of silence, and she isn’t quite sure if he expects her to respond or not, but then he continues: “I_ shot _Jessica, Lucy.”  Disbelief seeps through the words this time, yet there still isn’t much else. No guilt, no regret, no contentment, just raw surprise. “This is some of the most messed up shit. I…” Throwing any lingering caution to the wind, she sits up next to him and runs a soothing hand along his arm. The gesture shakes him from his haze, and his gaze shifts down to where her hand is still traveling across his skin before moving to twine their hands together, finally finding what he needs to say. “It’s all so hard to process, but… if I had to do it over again, if I ever have to face that again, I know there’s no question, no second choice, it’s you, Lucy.” The intensity in his azure eyes burns with promise and assurance._

 _“I hope it never comes to this, but If I had to trade her life for yours, it’s always going to be you. It’s always_ been _you… even when I still thought she was my Jess, and I can never apologize enough for failing to prove it. I’m sorry for hesitating.”_

_She’s shocked to say the least. It’s not as if she hadn’t expected him to have so fairly serious repercussive thoughts after today, but this… it steals the air from her lungs and the thoughts from her mind. It’s so much more than a broken ‘I love you’ whispered on a cold concrete floor to a concrete heart that had decided love was no longer for her. A confession where he can’t even look her in the eyes to say it, where she fears it’s driven by emotion and vulnerability rather than truth. It’s nothing close to that… it shatters the statement. It takes those three words that could be misused, abused, or misunderstood and transforms them into something ingrained in the blood, moving from their hearts into their minds and through every part of their being. It becomes the core of their existence._

_She understands his love now. It’s instinctual, natural, inborn, and he couldn’t stop it even if he wanted to which she now knows he never will._

_A soft hand comes to rest on his cheek, just one more physical connection that solidifies their bond._

_“I think we’ve both apologized enough for a few hundred lifetimes, Wyatt,” she chuckles softly, dragging her thumb along his growing beard. “All’s forgiven, forgotten. From now on, wherever we end up, it’s you and me and that open road. All this living in the past crap is really overrated.” She’s relieved to watch the wide smile break across his solemn demeanor. The hand that’s not twined with her’s comes up to wrap behind her neck, pulling her into a grinning kiss, but the moment he pulls back, another shadow of worry crosses his face._

_“Are_ you _okay?” He presses. “I don’t think these near brushes with death ever get easier, and you’ve had a few too many for my taste.” She leans her forehead into his and nods, her hand tightening around his._

_“I’m okay,” she assures him, thinking how amazing it is to say those words and actually mean it “It’s never an overly pleasant experience, but it’s over; we’re here; I’ll take that for now.”  They remain like that for just another beat before Lucy sits back again into the couch and tugs gently on Wyatt’s hand, encouraging him to lay down. Once he’s situated with his head snuggly secure in her lap, she begins to run her fingers through his hair, massaging, tugging, scratching in every way she knows he loves._

_Her eyes droop close after a few minutes of silence, her hands continuing their work, and a sense of serenity falls across her, lulling her to a blissful state of  restfulness—_

_“Luce?” Her head snaps back up at the sudden beckoning. She looks down at him, the ice in his eyes from earlier melting into warm pools of adoration._

_“Yeah?” She asks, moving one hand down from his hair to run across his cheek._

_“You think you could… sing?” The question catches her off guard. Sing? To him? She figures it’s not the most outlandish request as the last time she’d been bold enough to sing had been when she had practically laid her heart out for him to do with as he pleased._

_“You want me to sing?”_

_“I thought that was fairly obvious,” he chuckles, pulling the hand that had been on his cheek to his lips._

_“Okay, yes, smart ass,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “But why?” Now it’s his turn to scoff._

_“Because you’re amazing at it, Luce,” he tells her with all sincerity. “And it’s been almost 80 years since I’ve gotten to hear you.” His eyes are so pleading that she can’t imagine saying no. No one did sad puppy dog eyes quite like Master Sergeant Wyatt Logan. “I’m not asking for a staged performance of anything. Just… something. You could even hum it if you wanted to. I just don’t think there’s anything I’d rather hear right now, y’know?” Her heart feels so overwhelming full that she isn’t sure how it’s remained inside her chest. The way he looks at her, the way he talks to her, it just gives her a sense of security, of comfort, of_ home _that she’s never felt before, and if she had anything to say about it, he’d be filling her with this happiness every single day for the rest of their lives._

_So, hell yes, she’ll sing for him._

_“Stars shining bright above you…” The words are out of her mouth before she can think, and the next ones get caught up in her throat. The song she hasn’t sung in over 15 years, and it came out like she had been singing it yesterday. But the lull in the music has lasted longer than it should so she continues, “Night breeze seems to whisper ‘I…” Now the words are lost on her tongue for an entirely different reason. Words he hasn’t spoken since they lost Rufus, and words she has yet to bring herself to say in return._

_She feels Wyatt shift in her lap, casting his eyes up to her._

_“Luce? You okay?”_

_It isn’t until he sits up in haste, reaching out to wipe away the moisture from her cheek that she realizes any tears have fallen at all._

_“I’m sorry. I…” she knows she can tell him. Any and all secrets or sense of subtlety have long since passed, but it’s just… it’s something so deep in her heart that it takes a large part of her to reach in and retrieve it._

_But it’s him. It’s Wyatt, and she didn’t even think twice before letting her heart song speak to him, the least she can do is tell him why._

_So she burrows into his waiting her arms, slings her legs across his lap, and for the first time, to the first person, she speaks of her life. Of vinyls and offices and cribs and dancing and love and life and a family that’s been lost but in him she’s found again. She doesn’t speak of it with bitter regret and heartache because with him she_ has _something, something to fill what’s been missing since she was 17._

_It’s cathartic and healing and everything she never realized she needed so desperately, to grieve over the life she lost in order to look forward with wide, open eyes to the life they’re going to have together._

_Once the words have finished their steady flow from her lips, she sighs in relief, tucking her head underneath his chin and closing her eyes. She struggles to remember the last time happiness felt like this. Free from any provisions or burdens or restraints. He broke the chains that held her captive in her unrelenting ache for all that isn’t, that wasn’t, that might never be. Because he’s all she needs, all she’s ever longed for._

_He doesn’t speak for a while after she spills her story out to him. Instead, he scoops her up and pulls them both from the couch before setting her down, her arms still looped around his neck._

_“Dance with me?” The way he asks is cautious, almost shy._

_“What?” She laughs. “You do realize who you’re talking to, right?”_

_“Well yeah,” he shrugs. “But you said your parents used to dance when they had a hard day, and I think today definitely falls into that category.” He takes one hand in his, uses the other to wrap around her waist, and begins to sway them back and forth in silence. It feels silly and ridiculous, and that’s something she’s always avoided, but yet again he brings out a part of her that she hadn’t known existed. A part that hasn’t a care in the world._

_“You know,” he whispers in his ear. “It’s a lot easier to dance if there’s something to dance_ to. _” A soft laugh escapes her lips, and she hides her face in his shoulders before the words begin to flow again._

 _“Stars shining bright above you. Night breeze seems to whisper…” She takes a breath. “‘I love you.’ She feels his breath hitch, but they continue to sway. “Birds singing in a sycamore tree. Dream a little dream of me.” Her voice continues to fill the void of the silent bunker, but his mind has wandered, dreaming dreams of her, none of which are by any means ‘little.’ Dreams of a house, and her, and kids, and a_ home. _Things he’s never dreamed of wanting are sweeping through his conscious because he_ wants _them. He wants them with her and only her._

_“—but in your dreams wherever they may be, dream a little dream of—”_

_“I love you.”_

_Her melody halts suddenly at the words and the dancing with it._

_Words she hasn’t heard since that day. Words she knows now that she doesn’t need to hear to know the depth, but when he says them, they become the strand that binds all of the rest of it together, giving her a sense of completion and utter contentment._

_Any days ahead of time travel and war and heartache can be conquered because he loves her and because…_

_“I love you, too,” she whispers. He clutches her tighter as they begin to move again, and her heart feels lighter having relinquished the pent up passions that had been weighing on her heart since he’d insisted she leave him to die at the Alamo. Where she realized that she had no intentions of living a life without him._

_And then another statement rattles around in her mind, and it’s in the voice of their pilot, their best friend, their_ Rufus _._

_It’s about damn time._

 

* * *

 

“Lucy?”

The memory had pulled her into a wandering trance, leaving her younger self in an uncomfortable silence.

“Sorry,” she apologizes, hearing the raw emotion in her voice. “You know there’s so much I can’t share.” _That I so badly want to share._ “But the best thing I can tell you is to never second guess. Not with him. Trust your gut. Trust your instincts. Just like he taught you. For the first time in your life, Lucy, really listen to your heart. Thinking solely with your head is great in 1865 and 1936 and 1754, but leaving matters like him up to your head is just asking for incompletion. Because your head wants safe, your head wants sure, your head wants guarantees, and a love like this will never offer any of those things, but if you take it while it’s in front of you...” She glances down lovingly to her Wyatt, still sleeping with his head in her lap. “It’s gonna be the best gamble you ever take.”

They both know the conversation has to end there. If they remain any longer, questions will be asked that shake the ground and answers will come spilling out in tsunami waves. One Lucy so desperate to know anything and everything to prepare her for the future and one Lucy so desperate to give anything and everything to make her past any easier.

But in any timeline, Lucy Preston has always been a stickler for the rules, and this is one neither of them will bend any further.

“Get some sleep,” she instructs her past self. “Rest for once knowing that everything is going to be okay.” There’s no debate, no room for qualifications, so she just stands and takes her exit, but not before casting on more inquisitive glance toward her future.

“Is it all worth it?” _It_ denotes so many possible things, but when she rewinds through the decade of her life, it doesn’t really matter what _it_ is supposed to be. Wyatt, Amy, her mother, fighting Rittenhouse, saving the world, finding herself. Is it worth every tear, heartache, lonely night, lost friend, broken hope? Is it all worth it? Where she is now, who she is now, it’s the dream she never dreamed of.

“Yes.”

She sees some tension fall from the younger woman’s shoulders before smiling softly and heading back to her room with so much more than the tea she had originally come to seek comfort from.

Silence settles over the pair, and her fingers begin to weave back through his hair, but he is suddenly shifting, standing, and pulling her into his arms all at once, leaving her too stunned to adequately respond.

“I hurt you so badly, Lucy,” he chokes out. “I was hurting too much back then to understand the magnitude of just how much I made you suffer too.” The sudden onslaught of such powerful emotions hits her with a force that knocks the breath from her, and in an instant her arms are thrown around his shoulders, face buried into his shoulders because maybe _she_ never understood until now either. “I’m so sorry, Lucy. I don’t think I can ever—”

“Wyatt,” she cuts him off and pulls her head back to look into his eyes, the red from spilled tears making the blue stand out even more, and she’s fairly sure hers are about the same. “You couldn’t have known—”

“I _should’ve_ known.” He shakes his head, averting his eyes to the floor. “I should’ve known and done a lot of things that I was just too ignorant and too lost to see. There aren’t any excuses for it. I’m just… I can’t ever begin to express that regret, Lucy. How do I ever heal that?” A hand comes to his face, guiding his gaze back to hers.

“You already have,” she whispers. “You’ve healed me more times than I can ever remember. We’ve forgiven, Wyatt, and forgotten every single one of those moments. We’re stronger now _because_ of them.” His forehead falls in to hers, and a moment passes for them to just breathe each other in, relishing in the all-encompassing comfort of unconditional love.

His lips find hers in the softest of connections, but every kiss sends a shock through her, placing oxygen back in her lungs and fire back in her heart, reminding her that what this is, what they have, is life-giving.

“Well,” he chuckles when he pulls back, sniffing away some of the remaining tears. “ _One_ of us has certainly gotten stronger.” His hands run down her arms, appreciatively squeezing the muscles that have developed over the past five years. “And I don’t think it was me.” Her head is thrown back as she laughs, loving the way they can transform from a hurricane to sunshine in the blink of an eye.

“Well my lover makes one hell of a trainer,” she smirks, the feeling of a smile a relief after everything she just went through with her younger self.

“I know he loves the training, but I think he’s much more of a fan of loving you, babydoll.” And just like that, the sunshine ignites into something much brighter, much hotter.

“Is that so, sweetheart?”

Without a second of hesitation, he’s grabbing her hand, and they’re headed straight for their room.

She won’t be sleeping for quite a while, but it doesn’t make much of a difference when the dreams are right in front of her.

 

* * *

 

Her hands rub the sleep from her eyes as she makes her way down the cold, muggy hallway, but for the first time in what feels like years, her morning is marked with restfulness and ease. But as her hands make the pass across her eyes, she runs straight into Wyatt, her present Wyatt, as he exits the bathroom, hair dripping just a bit, smelling fresh, and his shirt clinging just a bit to his still damp skin.

“Woah,” he laughs, grabbing onto her arms. “Sorry ‘bout that, Lucy. What’s got you barreling down the hallway this early?”

There’s still a definite sense of caution tugging at her when it comes to everything _Wyatt,_ but a part of her just enjoys this closeness, physical and emotional. It feels a little more back to normal.

“Coffee,” she smiles, throwing her head in the direction of the kitchen. A sudden look of shyness over takes his features, and he runs a nervous hand along the back of his neck.

“Oh… yeah, you—you might find a mug already out for you,” he tells her, and she swears her heart stops for a moment.

_He’ll make you coffee. Every morning._

“O-oh,” she stutters. “Okay.” He smiles and nods before turning to head back to his room. “Hey, Wyatt?” He pauses, tense in his shoulders like he’s nervous for what’s about to follow.

“Yeah?” He asks over his shoulder.

“Wanna… drink some coffee?”

A relieved smile flashes across his lips before he turns to fully face her.

“Coffee sounds great.”

 

They sit and drink in silence. A comfortable, relaxing silence. The first time in so long the absence of noise isn’t heavy with unsung feelings and confessions.The initial sip of her coffee is just like Lucy described it: a little too much sugar, not enough cream, a little too bitter, but he made it for her, to make her happy, to extend a caffeine-spiked peace offering, so she gladly drinks it, soaking in its warmth and his presence.

They lock eyes over their mugs, the ocean blue tide coming up to meet the copper sand.

“Lucy—”

Whatever he’s intending to say is muted when another, very similar voice carries down the hall.

“ _Staaaars fading but I linger oooon, dear, still craving your kiss…”_

It’s long-winded and off-key and very clearly an attempt to mimic the growly baritone voice of Louie Armstrong, but she can’t keep a smile from splitting across her cheeks. In this future not only does she do a fair amount of singing to him, but _he_ sings to _her._

Wyatt’s face is anything but pleased. Mortified would be how she describes it.

“Oh lord…” he mumbles, eyes glued to the wall between them and the shower, where the sound is coming from.

The mortification becomes a shared experience when Lucy’s songbird voice responds with the next line of the song, the meaning of the song still lost on him, but nothing can hide the fact that the future selves are there… singing together… in the shower.

“Well that’s…” She chuckles awkwardly, unable to decide what exactly _that_ is.

“Yeah…” he chuffs in response taking a larger gulp of his coffee. “Told you I couldn’t sing.”

She sits in contemplative silence, listening intently to the melody, however harsh it might be, coming from just a few feet away, and it sends thrills down her spine. She _wants_ to hear it. She wants him to sing to her, for them to sing, to be vulnerable, open, free, every day, every night, and she thinks—she _knows—_ they will get back to a place where they can.

“I don’t know,” she shrugs and smiles, taking another sip of the coffee he made. “I think he sounds pretty good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to release any and all feels into that little review box! Thank you for reading!


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